


Killing In the Name

by Yavannie



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, All-Human, Alternate Universe, F/M, Humor, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special CIA agent Darcy Lewis is sent to England to investigate how private information from the President’s own cell phone was leaked during a state visit. What starts out as a simple in-and-out job soon spirals out of control when she’s caught up in a mess of meninist MPs, psycho killers and devilishly handsome MI6 agents…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Quick and Clean Turns Quite Complicated

The Oval Office had seldom felt so stuffy. The AC was working well enough, but sheer tension made the air thick enough to slice, butter, and spread with jam. From her position at the door, Darcy had a good view of the flushed neck of the man sitting opposite the President. Between them on the desk were a pile of documents; printed screenshots, copies of emails and various reports, all connected to the scandal that was currently threatening to unfold.

Private emails, family photos, posts from restricted social media accounts - accessed only via the President’s smartphone - had been sent anonymously to the White House along with demands that the President resign within three weeks. The NSA had traced the leak as far back as the state visit to Britain two weeks earlier, but now they had reached a dead end. 

The government official licked his lips and cleared his throat. His brow was shiny with sweat, and with a shaking hand he groped at his pocket, presumably for an already-soaked rag. This guy was in some deep shit. Technically speaking it wasn’t _his_ shit, but he was most definitely in it. Darcy looked down at her nails, unable to watch as he pulled the handkerchief out.

“At this point, I don’t think we can move forward without a contact in England,” he said.

“No,” said President Lopez. “My privacy is something I had counted on giving up to an extent, but I am not giving Cameron the satisfaction. We will deal with this quietly, you hear? Now please get out there and do your job. Find out who did this.”

“Madam President,” he began, voice trembling. “I know we’ve been over this before, but I must ask you again. Was there any time–,”

“I told you before, Grossman,” president Lopez interrupted him. “I’ve told plenty of people. That phone is literally strapped to my body. I trust I don’t need to go into detail. My phone is _always_ secure. Now get. Out.”

Darcy watched as Grossman scrambled his papers together and shoved them into a folder before hurrying towards the door. 

"These people," said President Lopez. "Who hires them?"

"I believe you do, Madam. Or at least the people who hire the people. But this time, I think he might have a point."

"Not you too, Lewis," said Lopez warningly.

Holding up a hand, Darcy shook her head. "Nuh-uh. I know your routines, and I know you’d own up if you’d fudged it. But those routines do have some weak points, so let's go with the obvious opportunities. Where did you put the phone when you showered? Took a bath?"

Lopez shrugged. "In the safe. One of those small safes you get in hotels. In fact, I think that was the only time I even undressed. I stayed up all night in negotiations with Cameron and then we left for Paris straight from there.”

Darcy nodded. "Then that's where we start."

The President was quiet for a while. "You mean someone was in my hotel room when I was bathing?"

"It's a possibility..."

"I trust my men implicitly-,"

"...but not very likely. Was the safe in a closet?"

"Yes."

"Right. I'll call for someone at the London office to go out there and investigate right away, Madam," said Darcy, preparing to rise from the chair.

"Don't," said Lopez, waving dismissively. "It's probably five in the morning there or something."

"Half past midnight," said Darcy, "but we don't pay them to sleep well, now do we?”

"No, but if you think it’s a good lead, I want someone I can trust on this."

Darcy sank back down slowly. "Christina..."

President Lopez leaned forward on her knuckles, giving Darcy the trademark look of determination that had taken her all the way from being a senator’s secretary to the West Wing. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Lewis. This is personal, and I want someone I can personally rely on to get it done. Pack a bag and book a flight. That's an order."

 

* * *

Darcy had not been to England before. She had more international missions under her belt than most agents her age, but the tour of Europe had been overseen by another team. It had been nice to take a step back for once. After a chance save of the President's life by some quick thinking and being in the right place at the right time, she had risen quickly in the ranks. She liked to think she had earned her stripes in more ways than simply becoming friendly with Christina, but she couldn't help feeling out of her depth. She knew the President liked to keep her close, not just for security, but for other reasons as well. "I need women around me," she had said to Darcy once. "Good women. I need a safe haven from that snake pit,” she said, meaning Capitol Hill. Thus it was that Darcy, aged 25 and after barely a year as a junior field agent, had become the person Christina Lopez sent to London to quietly deal with whoever had put their filthy paws on that phone. Perhaps this would be her chance to prove that she had more skill than luck.

Flying commercial had its ups and downs. In the up department was a wide range of recent box office disappointments and as many lemon-scented towelettes any girl could wish for. Downsides included a middle-aged man with sleep apnea whose Valium-and-scotch induced snores were 100% impervious to prods, rough pokes, and even downright kicks. Also, she had been stripped of her Glock before traveling. She would check a replacement out from the office in London, but right now, a distinct lack of leather-encased steel was keeping her awake and on edge.

The result was one very tired Darcy Lewis in line for the passport control at Heathrow airport, surrounded by suits with bad teeth and tea stained ties. She could flash her badge, of course, but the whole point of this expedition was to solve the issue quickly and quietly. The border police would let her pass without question, but then she'd have an MI-number of your choice on her tail for the rest of the trip. A regular passport, a portfolio of designer sketches, and a few select outfits it was. If she had to go undercover, she preferred to do it in fashionable clothes. Like all well-cut suits, hers was flattering to her figure, something that didn’t escape the man at the other side of the glass window.

“Welcome to England,” said the balding Border Force officer to her boobs as he stamped her passport. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Enjoying it more and more the further away from you I get,” she muttered under her breath as she made for the baggage claim. After picking up her bag, she sought out the AVIS desk to rent a car.

“Don’t you have anything bigger?” asked Darcy, eyeing a folder listing one compact car after the other.

“Aren’t you staying in central London?” asked the clerk in a nasal drawl, giving her a doubtful look.

“Yes, in umm… Belgravia.”

“To be honest, driving anywhere in London is a bit of a hassle, and with a big car…”

“Then what do you recommend?” said Darcy impatiently.

“A taxi?”

“Well,” said Darcy, tucking the folder back in its stand. “Far be it from me to try and give you business you don’t want.”

The taxi rank was a mess of honking and shouting. After a glance up at the rainy skies, she fished out the in-flight magazine from her handbag and shielded herself as she ran to the nearest free taxi.

“The Dorchester,” she said, fumbling for the handle.

“Dorchester?” said the driver, frowning. “That’s more than a hundred miles, my love.”

“No, _The_ Dorchester. In London. Are you going to help me with the bag or what?”

The driver gave a laugh. “On a day like this, you might actually be better off just going to Dorchester.”

“What do you mean?”

“The M4’s all clogged up. Some accident. See all them Hackneys all waiting to get out of here?” He pointed towards a long row of black cabs that Darcy had thought were parked.

“Yeah?”

“The queue starts there.”

“Well, shit.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. If you ask me, I’d say take the train today, love.”

Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of the ticket barrier at the Heathrow Express, holding a ticket up to a lanky young man in a bright orange reflex vest.

“What do you mean I can’t go through,” she asked, voice dangerously low. “I bought this over there,” she jutted the ticket towards the ticket office, “not thirty seconds ago.”

The young man shrugged apologetically. “A strike is a strike, miss.”

“Then what the hell am I doing with this!” she shoved the ticket in his face again.

“It’s valid for a month, and it’s only the drivers who aren’t working, so–,”

“I’m not going in a month, I’m going now.”

“But, you see, there’s no trains.”

She drew a breath, ready to launch into a rant that would have left him crawling at her feet, then snapped her mouth shut, slowly crumpled the ticket up in her hand and dropped it on the floor between them. “Then what do you suggest I do?” she asked, her voice smooth as honey and dripping with venom.

The young man swallowed hard. “Tube?”

 

* * *

The CIA London office was located in the basement of the U.S. Embassy, a stone's throw from the hotel where the President had been staying, and where she was now checked in as well. She was met by the head of the European branch herself, Chief Supervisor Natasha Romanoff.

"I feel a certain personal responsibility," she said in a hushed voice as they walked.

“You shouldn’t,” said Darcy. “If it’s what I think it is, no one was ever technically in the room with the President when it happened. Her safety was probably never at risk.”

“Still,” said Romanoff, touching her arm briefly. “I may be your superior, but anything you want, all you have to do is ask.”

Darcy threw the Supervisor a quick glance. She was a striking woman. Older, yes, but she had never minded before. “I might hold you to that.”

Romanoff showed her into the supplies room, handily located three floors underground behind four sets of super secure doors. “The usual?” asked Romanoff, sliding open drawer after drawer, displaying a wide range of guns and clips, daggers and other sharp tools, and general survival gear.

“You bet,” said Darcy, picking up a 9 millimeter, a shoulder holster and some ammo plus various knives, then shrugged out of her jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse. Romanoff gave a discreet cough and turned away. “No need for that,” said Darcy. “I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t either,” said Romanoff. “My girlfriend, on the other hand…”

Darcy smiled as she slung a sheathed dagger in a strap around her neck and secured it by her bra, then slid another one into the shaft of her boot. A third one went around her lower arm before she put her shirt on again. “You can look now,” she said as she shrugged into the gun holster.

She picked out a number of other items as well, tucking them neatly into her handbag and humming as she went.

“How long are you here for?” asked Romanoff with a frown.

“Hopefully no more than a couple of days, but you never know,” said Darcy, then zipped her bag shut and slung it over her shoulder. “There, all done!”

“Actually, there’s one more thing…” Romanoff slid another drawer open, revealing a gun-like object. “You know how touchy the Brits are about gun control. A couple of years ago, there was some collateral damage during a mission, and we were up to our ears in complaints from those jerks at the Ministry. So we had to make a deal.”

“A _taser_?” said Darcy incredulously, picking it up to inspect it more closely.

“They’re not too bad, actually,” said Romanoff apologetically. “Packs quite the punch. Just try to use it in, you know, non-emergencies.”

“Huh.” Darcy shrugged and strapped it on. “The things we do for protocol, eh?”

“Anything else I can do for you, Agent Lewis?”

Darcy sucked on her lip as she thought. “Well, I could do with a nap. But I also need to get my hands on the floor plans of The Dorchester…”

“We’ll take care of it,” said Romanoff. “Go sleep that jet lag off.”

 

* * *

She woke from the sound of something sliding across the floor, and before she was even fully aware of who, where, and when she was, she was rolling out of bed, scrambling for her gun, grasping at whatever was at her side. The unfamiliar feel of the taser in her hand was enough to make her brain short circuit, and instead of landing smoothly on two feet and a hand, she went crashing face forward, her cheek sliding roughly against the carpet. 

“Ow,” she grunted, then edged forward on her elbows and peeked around the edge of the bed. On the floor just inside the door was a plain brown folder. The architectural plans she had asked for. _Of course_.

The suite the President had been staying in was large and not adjacent to any other actual rooms in the hotel. A number of smaller spaces were dotted around it, however, and from the description she’d been given by President Lopez, Darcy soon homed in on a maintenance cupboard as her first point of investigation. 

Swiping a master key from the lobby was as easy as waiting for a quiet spell and then asking for a map of London from a stand behind the stroppy-looking receptionist. To avoid raising suspicion from the bell boy, she rode the elevator to the seventh floor where her own room was located, then took the back stairs up to the ninth. This entire floor was comprised of three luxury suites, neither of which were currently occupied. The CCTV cameras, however, never slept, and Darcy glanced at one as she made her way confidently through the hallway. One of the benefits of being a surveillance expert was being safe in the knowledge that security footage was hardly ever supervised live; in a well-respected hotel like this, the chances of the mythological fat guy in a cramped room watching eight different screens actually existing were slim to none. 

The maintenance cupboard was cramped and hot and smelled of chlorine. Darcy managed to shift a shelf on the back wall and squeeze herself in behind it. There were clear marks in the dust on the floor showing that someone else had done this not long ago, and sure enough, the air vent showed signs of being tampered with recently.

“This is too easy,” murmured Darcy as she unscrewed the grate.

She didn’t even have to crawl anywhere Die Hard style, even though she would have easily fitted. The vent in the opposite room was only a couple of feet away, and with the help of a flashlight, it didn’t take her long to confirm her suspicions. The cupboard with the safe was standing directly in front of the vent, and someone had simply sawed a hole in the back panel, then tacked a fake bit of panel on top. When she pried it away she could see the safe; a standard Safemark one. It looked normal enough. The hole was so big that she was able to reach through to use the keypad, but nowhere large enough that anyone could have exchanged the safe itself. Darcy gave a ‘hmm’ and scooted back out. She took out her phone and called the lobby.

“ _The Dorchester London, how may I help?_ ”

“Hi, this is Marie representing Safemark UK,” said Darcy cheerily. “We’ve been checking our records, and it looks like it’s time for maintenance. As you know, we recommend–,”

“ _Yes, no, thank you, but you were here very recently_.” The receptionist sounded every bit as pissy as he looked. Perhaps he’d realized his keys were gone.

“Really? Because I’m looking at my records here, and–,”

“ _You were here…_ ” She could hear paper shuffling in the background. “ _You were here three weeks ago, remember?_ ”

“Well, I don’t personally go out, but I guess there’s been a mistake.”

“ _Yes, I suppose. Was that everything?_ ”

“Yes, thank you for your…” She heard the click and looked at her phone. “Jerk.”

Her next stop were the CCTV records. Ten flights of stairs later, she was standing in a cramped room, waiting for a fifteen year old PC to wake up from sleep mode. It made a tinny, jangling sound, and a desktop background of a topless girl on a motorcycle appeared. She raised an eyebrow, then clicked a folder labeled June 2015.

“Come to mama,” she said with a smile.

 

* * *

 

She arranged meeting Romanoff for a pub dinner in a bustling free house in Soho. In a secluded corner, she handed the Supervisor a dossier of printouts.

“Like I said to Lopez before I left, one of your guys could have handled this,” she said. “Intricate plan, but badly handled. If we can get a face match, this thing’s wide open.” She popped a potato wedge in her mouth then pointed to the picture Romanoff was holding. “That’s the guy. Have you ever seen a more obviously fake mustache?”

Romanoff was frowning quietly. “Are you sure this is our man?” she said finally.

“Of course I’m sure, look.” She leaned over and flipped through the pixely pictures. “Here he is, three weeks ago. The so called maintenance man. And then again on the actual day, dressed as a housekeeper.” She watched Romanoff, who was looking more concerned by the minute. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“We don’t need to run a face match. I know who this is.”

 

* * *

The man was Alex King of the UK Independence Party and, more importantly, a newly elected Member of Parliament representing North Norfolk in the House of Commons. That meant that their plans of dealing with this quietly and quickly were out the window. Darcy spent half the night in a conference call, negotiating with the top names of CIA and President Lopez herself. Christina wanted to blow the whole thing up and just go public, but Director Fury was dead set against it, claiming that their relations with the UK were bad enough as it was. “Bring him in for a chat, but be nice about it,” he said. “And catch him at home, all right? We don’t want to make a scene.”

“I did some research,” said Romanoff once Darcy was out of the call and back in her office. She handed Darcy a wad of documents. “The guy’s a certifiable asshole.”

Darcy began flipping through the material. “Wants to ban same-sex marriage… Harsher abortion laws… Restrict immigration from developing countries, war zones, muslim countries, and the rest of the EU - well, that leaves Norway I guess. Ban Islam in Britain? Is this guy for real? I thought Europe was supposed to be liberal!”

“What can I say?” said Romanoff. “East Anglia isn’t exactly Kreuzberg.”

Darcy grunted and tucked the documents inside her bag. “Fury wants me to bring him in and talk to him. I need a car by tomorrow afternoon.”

“No problem.”

 

* * *

 

After a morning of deep, dreamless sleep, Darcy found herself in the parking lot of the embassy, suspiciously eyeing what would possibly become the smallest car she had ever sat in.

“Stakeout in a red Ford Fiesta?” she said.

“It’s unconventional, I know,” said Romanoff. “But it makes sense. You’ll blend in perfectly, it’s easy to park, and overall not a bad car.”

“Is it fast?”

“Have you seen the traffic here? You’ll be hard pressed to find a road anywhere south of Yorkshire where you’d even be able to do over 60 miles an hour, but sure, it’s a turbo.”

Darcy glanced inside, looking with apprehension at the steering wheel. It looked so _wrong_. “Don’t you have any normal cars?” she whined.

“Not used to driving stick?”

Her gaze dropped between the seats. “Oh no,” she groaned.

Five minutes later, she was doing her fourth lap in a roundabout. Getting in had been hard enough. Getting out seemed impossible. Car after car flitted in and out, seemingly without paying any attention to right of way. A lumbering double-decker pushed its way in front of her, making her swear, but at least it gave her something to aim for. Gripping the wheel tightly, she followed the bus closely as it plowed across both lanes and onto a side road, nearly clipping an old lady with a walking frame on a pedestrian crossing. She fumbled for the gear stick, but in her confusion grabbed the handbrake, making the car screech and stall. “Motherf–!” she said between clenched teeth, banging on the wheel with both hands and accidentally hitting the signal horn. She allowed herself two deep breaths before calmly and methodically starting the engine again. Then a taxi behind her honked, making her jump in her seat.

There was a tap on the side of her windshield. “Where’s your L-plates?” shouted a young man in a Burberry cap, grinning at her.

Furiously, she rolled down the window and leaned out. “Big talk from the guy with the V-plates,” she shouted after him, drawing hoots and howls from his friends. She hit the gas pedal, and drove off, her departure only slightly marred by the coughing engine and the jerking as she finally found second gear.

Alex King’s house was located on a quiet street in St John’s Wood, and Darcy parked a few doors down, then made herself comfortable with a thermos mug and a box of cheap, assorted chocolates. Around an hour later, in the late afternoon, a middle-aged lady left the house, carrying what looked like a bag of laundry. Darcy rifled through her papers, and ticked the short paragraph where it said King employed a part-time housekeeper. 

Another couple of hours passed in complete and utter boredom. With one leg up on the dashboard, she slurped the last of her lukewarm coffee and unwrapped another Dairy Milk. She used her pocket binoculars to watch an elderly gentleman walking a small dog, to count the number of brands on the shopping bags a woman hauled from a car to her house, and to inspect the behind of a bike delivery guy, then turned the radio on. A sports commentator droned on about cricket and she listened with half an ear, squirming in her seat. It was getting dark, and the coffee had worked its way through her system. The tall hedge next to King’s house started to look alluring. It was that or give up her spot for a while. Just as she had decided to make a quick dash to the nearest pub, a taxi pulled up. Darcy brushed the candy wrappers off her shirt and onto the floor, and sat up straight. It was King, glancing around him before rushing inside. 

“What are you up to?” she muttered. 

She made sure that her taser was in place and charged. Natasha Romanoff probably had a point that it wasn’t a good idea to aim a gun at a member of the British parliament, so after wavering a few moments, she left her Glock in the glove department. As she reached for the handle, King came out again, carrying a suitcase.

“Shit,” said Darcy and sat back again, getting ready to pursue.

King loaded the bag into the trunk of the car on his driveway, then disappeared into the house again. Darcy dug out her phone and scrolled through her contacts with trembling hands until she found Romanoff’s number. It rang for what seemed like minutes.

_“Yes?”_

“He’s leaving!”

_“What?”_

“King! He’s packing his bags, getting ready to leave. I’m getting a feeling he knows. Do you want me to make the arrest?”

_“Fuck…”_ Romanoff hesitated. _“Do it,”_ she said. _“Yes. Affirmative. We have enough. Make the arrest, we’ll sort the formalities out later.”_

“Get me a warrant,” said Darcy and clicked away the call. 

Throwing a quick glance around, she left the car and sprinted towards King’s house. As she ran, she realized her need to pee was quite a bit more urgent than she had thought. _You have a bladder of steel, now stop thinking about it_ , she thought to herself. Alex King emerged again, and Darcy crouched down by the low wall in front of the neighboring house. She peeked over the top of it to see King hurry down the narrow path that led to the yard. She would have preferred to confront him inside the house, but she had no choice but to follow. The path was gravel, and she skirted the edge of it where weeds and grass muffled the sounds of her footsteps. Coming from the brightly lit street as she did it was too dark to make anything out, and just in case, she pulled the taser out and readied it. Her heart was racing as the yard came into view. King was nowhere in sight, and she quickly assessed the scene. It was basically a long, narrow lawn surrounded by unkempt flowerbeds and thorny brambles. There was a garden shed to the left, and she strained her ears to listen for noises from inside, but all was quiet. At the far end of the lawn, she could make out a door in the tall stone wall. She knew there was a footpath on the other side, and the door would provide King with a quick exit. He hadn’t used it though, because she could see a shovel leaning against it. She took two quick steps to crouch behind a water barrel, then slowly peered around it to look at the back door of the house. It was ajar. 

“Shit,” she swore under her breath, then moved back behind the barrel. 

The most likely route he would take was the front, of course, but now she had to leave one exit unsupervised. Back pressed against the wall, she peeked around the corner towards the street. Clearly visible against the street light was the silhouette of a man, and she snapped her head back. _Fuck_. She was almost certain he’d been holding a gun. Then she heard him break into a run. Acting on instinct, she crouched down, threw herself out onto the path and fired her taser. The electrodes hit him squarely in the chest, and she heard the satisfying sound of a gun dropping to the ground and a strained noise as the electrical current did its job. Even as he went crashing into the gravel, Darcy got to her feet and looked down at her victim. It wasn’t King. 

“Fuuuuck…” she said, backing away a couple of steps.

Then she heard the screeching sound of a car taking off, and left the unknown man where he was to run out to the street. She saw King’s Audi skid around a corner, and grabbed at her head in frustration. With her driving skills here, there was no way she could hope to catch him up. Dragging her hands down her cheeks, she turned back to the house and the lifeless body lying hidden in the shadows. She stole over to the dark path, then took out her mini flashlight, turned on the dimmed light, and let the beam sweep over the ground. She found the gun, a Walther P99, and slipped it into her waistband. Then she turned to the man. Her first and immediate guess was a hired hand. He was dressed in a suit and tie and expensive looking shoes. He was handsome. Uncommonly so for a Brit, if he was one. Long legs, dark hair, shapely eyebrows and a sharp jawline made for immaculate looks, only slightly hampered by his mouth hanging open where he lay. Darcy took the flashlight between her teeth, unbuttoned the suit jacket, and dug out his wallet. Flipping it open, she felt herself go cold. 

"Fug," she mumbled around the flashlight before taking it out to look closer at the badge. "Fuck fuckity fuck."

Laufeyson, Loki, MI6. _MI6_. He was a fucking _spy_. Was she the target, or was he after King as well? Darcy tried to make sense of the situation and what to do next, but now that the action was temporarily suspended, the extremely urgent need to pee hit her like a roundhouse kick in the bladder. Looking around desperately, she didn't see many options. She couldn't leave the agent out of sight, so she did what any sane dog would do, and ran into the yard to squat on the lawn. 

She let out a pained sigh of relief as she crouched down, then felt the gun drop onto the grass behind her. She tried to look over her shoulder, but the veritable waterfall she was producing was keeping her from moving too much.

“Leave it." 

She snapped her head up to find the MI6 agent on his feet and with a dagger in his hand. 

"It's not what it looks like," she said hurriedly, and raised her hands in defense, causing her to wobble on her heels. "I'm CIA. You know, American."

"Indeed? And are CIA agents in the habit of relieving themselves in the gardens of..." He frowned. "Is that _my_ gun?"

"No," said Darcy quickly. “Well, yes, but listen... Can I just..." She slowly lowered her hands and indicated at her pants. Agent Laufeyson nodded once, and with the way he held the dagger she was sure he was highly skilled at using it. She stood and shimmied her pants up, trying her best to keep her private parts out of sight, then raised her hands again.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"My job," she said. "I can show you my badge if you let me." She slowly reached for her own wallet, but he flicked his dagger at her, making her freeze.

"Don't move," he said, then stepped close. 

He held the knife low, in a position where he could plunge it into the side of her stomach, or slash at her arm before she had the chance to disarm him. Darcy stayed completely still as he reached out with his other hand to unbutton her jacket. As he slipped his hand inside her pocket, his knuckles brushed against her breast. Involuntarily, her breath hitched a little, and Darcy quietly cursed her nerve endings for living their own sordid little lives. Laufeyson's eyes flickered to hers, and she could see a mocking flash in them. She knew then that he already knew what she was, if not who. There was no need for this; he was just taking the opportunity to flex his muscles a bit. She rewarded him with an unimpressed glare.

"Darcy Lewis," he said, inspecting her badge. He pocketed it and smirked at her. "To put it the American way, you are way out of your jurisdiction."


	2. Partners in Crime...solving

Pepper Potts was a slim, seemingly unassuming redhead in a sober grey skirt and a white blouse. She was also one of the most dangerous women in the Northern Hemisphere. Not because of her fighting skills (although they were reportedly not to be sniffed at), but because as the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service, she had the deadliest force in Europe at her beck and call. Right now she was eyeing through a report of tonight’s events, likely hastily written by Agent Laufeyson while Darcy had been contemplating early retirement in a holding cell in the basement of Vauxhall Cross. Laufeyson was standing by the window, looking insufferably smug, and it struck Darcy that she’d been in this very situation not two days before. Only this time, she was the one sweating it out before an imposing lady. The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the ominous sound of Potts turning the page over. Darcy inspected her nails, trying her best not to feel like a schoolgirl in front of the principal. Potts frowned suddenly, leaned forward over the paper for a couple of seconds, then looked straight at Darcy.

“Urinating on Agent Laufeyson’s service weapon?” she said.

“I didn’t do that,” said Darcy quickly.

“You did exactly that,” said Laufeyson.

“I told you in the car that it simply fell out–,” she hissed, before Potts held up a hand to silence her.

“Agent Lewis, I have yet to receive an explanation as to why exactly you were sneaking around the garden of a Minister of Parliament, never mind using it as a restroom.”

“I had my reasons,” said Darcy. “Look, surely you're already in touch with Romanoff, and if you're not getting what you want from her, you're not going to get it from me either," she added with a cool smile.

Potts huffed and raised her eyebrows, the turned to Agent Laufeyson. "And you, Loki? What is your take on all of this?"

"I don't have one," he said dismissively. "Shut her up and ship her back to the colonies. She's obviously completely incompetent, yet the CIA saw fit to have her blundering around here. Let _them_ deal with her."

How come the handsome ones were always such assholes? Darcy was glaring daggers at him, but a look from Potts kept her quiet. "Completely incompetent you say?" she said. "And yet she managed to incapacitate you with a taser."

Laufeyson suddenly looked like he was choking on a lemon. "The Service promotes a restrictive use of weapons," he said with a stiff smile. "Clearly, the Americans have a different approach."

"Bullshit," said Darcy, unable to restrain herself. “I could hand you that skinny ass of yours any day of the week.”

“It’s been known to happen,” said Potts, side-eyeing her agent.

"P...!" said Laufeyson, making Darcy snort loudly.

"Do you find this amusing?" said Potts with a frown.

"No," said Darcy, barely masking a spasm of laughter. 

There was a knock on the door, and Potts threw each of them a stern glance before going to answer it.

"You call her P?" said Darcy in a hushed voice. "Seriously?"

Laufeyson shrugged. “It’s tradition.”

Darcy stifled another laugh, then took a deep breath to compose herself. Laufeyson raised an eyebrow in question. “Pee," she said quietly. “You know…” She threw a meaning look at her own lap.

The corner of Laufeyson's mouth twitched, and he gave a little cough. He shuffled on his feet, looking away, but she could see he was trying to cover a smile up.

Potts came back, now with Natasha Romanoff in tow, and Darcy straightened up, ready to take the scolding she knew she deserved. However, Romanoff simply touched Darcy on the shoulder and gave her a reassuring look. “It was my call,” she said. 

“I fucked up,” said Darcy quietly.

“We both did, and now the cat’s out of the bag.”

“What now?” asked Darcy.

“We’ll work something out,” said Romanoff, her eyes on Potts.

An awkward silence settled over the room, and then Potts cleared her throat. “Loki, you look like you could do with a break.”

“What..?” said Laufeyson.

“Take agent Lewis with you. We haven’t even offered you a cup of tea yet, have we dear?”

Darcy knew when she was being passive aggressively dismissed and stood with a slight bow. Laufeyson, however, seemed slow on the uptake. “I’m sorry, but–,” he began.

“Don’t let me detain you,” said Potts, shuffling some papers on her desk.

“Come on, double-o,” said Darcy, nodding Laufeyson along. 

He pushed himself away from the wall reluctantly and joined her. Darcy followed him past the offices of high ranking agents to the elevators, and normally she would have been craning her neck to catch every possible scrap of information, soaking up names and titles, but instead she found herself unable to tear her gaze away from Laufeyson’s ass. Without his suit jacket, his slim hips and firm behind were on full display and driving her to distraction. For all her talk about it, she found she would much rather just grab his ass than hand it to him. As he stepped into the elevator and turned around, she had to snap her head up to not keep staring at his general groin area. “How do you take it?” he asked and pushed the button for the second floor.

Darcy was momentarily stunned. “Excuse me?” she said, while images of her being taken against, well, say, the mirrored wall of the elevator invaded her mind totally against her will.

“Your tea. How do you take it?”

“Oh. The tea. Uh, you know what? I prefer coffee. Lots of milk, no sugar.”

They rode down in silence, Darcy trying to find a surface that didn’t have a reflection of Loki Laufeyson on it to rest her eyes on. She settled for her shoes. On the second floor, he showed her to a table in a deserted dining area and disappeared for a couple of minutes before returning with two cups of coffee.

“What, no tea?” said Darcy.

Laufeyson simply grunted, then dug out a snack pack of cookies from his pocket and threw it on the table. As Darcy busied herself opening it, Laufeyson fished out his phone and was soon zoned out, thumbs flying across the touchscreen.

“Loki,” she said after a while. She dragged the word out thoughtfully, making him glance up at her. “That’s an unusual name.”

“Scandinavian,” he said in a short voice before resuming his scrolling.

“Right. What were you doing at King’s house?”

He looked up again. “I hardly think you’re in a position to ask questions.”

“Okay then,” she said with a pleasant smile. For a few minutes, she sat sipping her coffee in silence, watching Laufeyson. He seemed oblivious to her eyes boring into his brow where a stray lock of black hair made her fingers itch. “It’s my first time in England,” she said.

“Really,” he said in a disinterested voice.

“I gotta say, I’m not loving it.”

Laufeyson put his phone on the table and sat back in his chair. “Look, _agent_ Lewis,” he said. “There’s no need to try and get friendly. I don’t do friendly, so you can stop wasting your breath.”

“Woah,” said Darcy. “Just trying to make conversation, dude.”

“I don’t do that either.”

She gave an audible huff and threw a hand up. “Feel free to leave any time.”

“I would if I could,” he said. “Trust me. There are a million and one things I’d rather do than babysit some yank trainee.”

Darcy leaned over the table and waved her finger threateningly at him. “If I had that taser right now, I swear to god–,”

“Loki!” a voice bellowed. “I didn’t know you were still here. Working overtime, eh?”

Darcy turned her head to see a tall, muscular guy walking towards their table, grinning openly. His eyes were a striking bright blue, and his straw-colored hair was swept back into a messy bun. He was gorgeous.

"Brother," replied Laufeyson stiffly. 

"And who's this?” Mr. Men’s Health cover-boy turned to Darcy with a curious look.

"Darcy Lewis," said Darcy and extended her hand. “I’m with the CIA."

"Thor. Thor Odinson. I wasn't aware you were working with America's finest, Loki." He smiled warmly at Darcy.

"I don't think he is either," said Darcy, then turned to Laufeyson. "I'm sorry, but did you say you're his _brother_?"

"If you knew how often I've asked myself that," he muttered.

Thor laughed heartily. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Darcy Lewis?”

“That’s classified,” she said smoothly. “For now, at least.” She held his gaze a little longer than strictly necessary. Thor’s smile was infectious, and she felt herself starting to grin as well.

“I’ll handle this,” said Laufeyson then, snapping them out of their little moment. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“As always,” said Thor, smiling regretfully. “Father keeps us busy. But… if you’re around for a while, I’m sure we can squeeze in some sightseeing,” he said to Darcy and winked.

She watched him saunter off, trying to make her mind up whose ass looked better; his or Laufeyson’s.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” drawled Laufeyson. 

Darcy huffed. “What are you talking about?”

Laufeyson gave her an unimpressed look, then drained his coffee. They sat in awkward silence until at long last, the steady clicking of heels announced the arrival of Potts and Romanoff. Darcy got to her feet, looking at her supervisor expectantly. 

“The case is ours, and 10 Downing Street is left in the dark,” said Natasha with a smile, and Darcy couldn’t stop herself from dropping her eyes to Laufeyson flashing him a grin of smug satisfaction.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, rising slowly. “After what she–,”

“On one condition,” Potts broke in sternly. “The service will have complete insight into the investigation at all times.”

“Wait, what?” said Darcy. “Complete insight? You mean I have to report back to you?”

“Not only that,” said Potts with a dry smile. “You will be accompanied by one of our agents at all times. To make sure no further… misunderstandings occur.”

Darcy turned to Romanoff. “You’re okay with this?”

She shrugged. “It’s our case but their turf. Think of it as an extra resource. A partner.” 

“Who?” It was Laufeyson, speaking in a low voice. “Who will accompany her?” He sounded oddly worried.

“Well,” said Potts, looking from Darcy to Laufeyson and then back again. “Seeing as the two of you got into this mess together, you may as well find a way out of it.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m going to appeal to the board,” Laufeyson said, fuming as they hurried across the parking lot of Vauxhall Cross.

“Please do,” said Darcy, cheeks still blossoming with rage. After giving Laufeyson a complete briefing, Romanoff had told them to go back to King’s house to investigate further. It was getting light and neither of them had slept, but the sooner they searched the house, the better. Since Darcy’s red Fiesta was still parked outside it, she was riding shotgun once more, and from the way things were going, she wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to cuff her to the seat again.

“This is completely unacceptable.”

“Oh I agree.”

“Perhaps father will convince P to be more accommodating.”

“Whatever gets you off the case,” said Darcy, meaning it wholeheartedly.

Laufeyson barked a laugh. “No, Lewis. Whatever gets _you_ off the case.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “Excuse me? Just who the hell do you think you are?”

He spun around with remarkable speed. “Someone a lot better equipped to handle this than you. How old are you, Lewis? Are you allowed to drink in your home state yet? If this is the best the CIA has to offer in a matter of national security, I worry for them. For your entire country.”

In a couple of seconds, she had internally rattled off four or five very decent comebacks, but she knew this was a hole she’d only slip deeper into. “Fuck. You,” she said calmly, then made for the car again.

“Doesn’t that potty mouth of yours get you into trouble at school?” said Laufeyson behind her, his smirk practically audible. 

And at that, Darcy had had enough. Turning slowly towards him, she drew herself up, then slapped him sharply across the cheek. Laufeyson gave a little hiss, and with a confused frown he lifted a hand to his face. That was what she had waited for. Quickly, she hooked her foot around his knee, sweeping him off his feet with a smart kick. She had the time to see his expression go from surprise to desperation as he flailed helplessly, trying to grab at her, but the momentum was too great, and he fell. As he lumbered backwards, she grabbed the leg he was predictably trying to kick her with and pulled him forward, then quick as a snake pressed her heel to his throat. His hand twitched, and she pressed harder.

“Don’t even think about it or I’ll snap that windpipe of yours like a twig,” she said. Slowly, Laufeyson relaxed on the ground, spreading his arms in a gesture of defeat. “I got this job because I was _qualified_ ,” Darcy went on, “and the next time you question that, it’ll be your balls under my foot, understand?”

“A shame…” Laufeyson drew a wheezing breath, then coughed. “A shame you’re not wearing a skirt.” He glanced up her leg with a strained leer.

“You pig,” said Darcy, shaking her head, then stepped down on his throat just a little harder before pulling her leg back, making sure to leave a smear of dirt along the collar of his shirt.

 

* * *

 

 

The house was as they had left it, the driveway deserted and the back door still ajar. The inside was tidy and remarkably empty in the stark morning light - most of the rooms had nothing in them, and what little furniture there was was cheap and looked like something straight out of a bachelor’s pad. The one furnished bedroom upstairs was the exception, where a kingsized bed made from some expensive looking dark wood dominated the space. 

“I’m guessing this guy was a nobody before the election,” Darcy said as she opened drawers, finding nothing but crumpled up underwear and new shirts still in their plastic wrapping.

“In terms of money, perhaps, but he’s made his presence known. The house he bought only a couple of months ago though.”

They moved on to the office, where an empty desk told an unsurprising tale. 

“He took it all with him,” said Laufeyson. “I saw him load it into his car. Two laptops and one stationary computer.”

“That reminds me,” said Darcy. “What were _you_ doing here?”

“My job,” he said with a smirk, echoing her words last night in the yard. Darcy glared at him. “We’d received word of an increased threat level,” he explained.

“What kind of threat? Did he know about me?”

“Shockingly enough no.” He shrugged dismissively. “Nothing connected to this, at any rate.”

“I need to know,” Darcy insisted.

“Quite frankly, I don’t think you do,” said Laufeyson. “Now, do you want to confiscate anything here or are we done?”

She took the contents of the desk drawers. At a glance it was a mix of UKIP material, old invoices and a few handwritten notes, and she shoved it all into a plastic bag, quietly cursing Laufeyson. What was up with him anyway? Not only was he a grade A jerk, but he was downright uncooperative, too. Well, two could play that game.

“I’ll let you know how I get on,” said Darcy as they went downstairs again. She pushed past him on the way out, determined to get in her car and away from him as soon as possible.

“I don’t think so, Lewis,” he said, hurrying after her. “You’re not doing anything with those papers without me.”

Darcy rolled her eyes and kept walking. The Fiesta was where she had parked it, untouched despite her leaving it unlocked. The only signs of anyone tampering with it were three parking tickets that it had somehow accumulated over the course of one night.

“You heard Potts and your KGB officer,” Laufeyson went on, grabbing her by the shoulder. 

She spun around. “I don’t know about you, Bond, but I’ve been up for thirty-six hours and I need my beauty sleep.” Laufeyson raised his eyebrows, but for once didn’t go for the obvious comeback.  Darcy held up the bag with the documents. “If you’re so interested in this pile of crap, swing by the hotel this afternoon and we’ll go over it together.”

“Which hotel?”

She threw him a tired look. “You’re a secret agent, double-o. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She plucked the tickets from underneath the windscreen wiper and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. “And take care of these while you’re at it. _Ta_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once she got back to The Dorchester, Darcy immediately began rifling through the papers in the hopes of finding something good before she slept. A quick glance yielded nothing of interest, and she found herself nodding off trying to decipher the handwriting on some of the notes King had written. Learning back on the bed, she took her glasses off and massaged her temples. It felt good to close her eyes, just for a little bit…

She woke with a start from a smart knock on her door. 

“Lewis?”

“Oh shit,” she mumbled, getting to her feet. The clock on the bedside table read 15:30, and her back felt like she’d slept with a broomstick up her shirt. She buttoned up her pants and patted down her hair, then put on the most awake face she could muster before opening the door. Laufeyson was looking as elegant as ever, and he eyed her critically, his gaze lingering on a spot somewhere to the left of her mouth. Turning away, she quickly wiped some dribble off her cheek.

“Come on in,” she said.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, glancing at the mess of documents on the floor and the bed. 

“Did you expect anything less of me?”

“Of course not. Find anything?”

With a sigh, Darcy shuffled some papers around with her foot. “Not yet. Mostly propaganda. It leaves a nasty taste in your mouth, sure, but nothing that resembles international espionage, you know?”

They divided the pile between them, Laufeyson settling at the desk by the window and Darcy on the bed. Aside from the occasional curse over King’s poor handwriting, they worked in silence. After an hour had passed, Laufeyson coughed discreetly.

“Not that I’d dream of questioning your investigation, Lewis, but don’t you think we’d be better off trying to track this guy down?” he asked.

“We’ve got people on his credit cards,” said Darcy dismissively, but quietly she agreed. The house had given them nothing, these papers were giving them nothing, and all the answers they wanted were with those computers and King himself. She bit her lip, then quickly rifled through the bottom of her pile, her eyes landing on a takeaway menu. Her stomach immediately rumbled in approval, so loudly that Laufeyson turned around in his seat with a frown. “Fuck it, let’s eat something,” she said, tossing the documents on the floor.

Out of the pile, a single, small piece of paper escaped. It looked like it might have been a corner from a page torn off a newspaper, and it did a little loop before landing on the carpet. Darcy went to grab it, but Laufeyson was quicker, snatching it up before she could reach it.

“What is it?” she said, suddenly weirdly convinced that this would be a breakthrough, some piece of information unwittingly left behind by King. Laufeyson snorted, then handed it to her. It was a combination of letters and numbers that read BS20 7HZ. “Is this some sort of code?” she asked.

“For once you nailed it, Lewis. This is definitely a code. It’s a _post_ code. BS means Bristol, and the high number indicates one of the outer areas.”

“Oh,” Darcy felt herself deflate. “Well, maybe we should still check it out. Which reminds me, I should see if the office has gotten anywhere.” She fished her phone out and dialed Romanoff.

“ _Yes?_ ”

“Natasha. It’s Darcy. We’ve been over what little we could find in King’s house and we’ve got nothing so far. No bills, no bank statements, no more computer equipment…”

“ _Right. As far as we know, he’s still in the country. Unless he left by boat, he’s probably just hiding under a rock somewhere. We’ve got the word out on his Audi, too, and we’re working on a wiretap for his mobile…_ _Not easy when you’re dealing with a politician and want to keep it quiet though._ ”

“We found a zipcode on a scrap of paper here, hand written. It could be anything, I guess. It’s some area in Brighton…”

“Bristol,” Laufeyson corrected her. “But it’s hardly worth–,”

“Bristol, sorry,” she said, waving her hand irritably at him.

“ _Like you said, could be anything. Could be an aunt, could be an old friend, could be nothing at all. It’s more likely that he’s somewhere in his home area, so don’t go rushing off across the country just yet, okay?_ ”

As she clicked the call away, Laufeyson picked up the piece of paper, then snorted again. “It appears you’ve been watching a few too many crime series, Lewis. It’s not exactly as if clues just fall from the sky, pointing you in the right direction.” He chuckled, a sound full of contempt, then tucked away the little note inside his pocket. She stared at his hand, gritting her teeth. If it was such a useless piece of information, then why–

“How about that food?” he said, and the thought was forgotten.

Three hours later, she was on her fifth Margarita and feeling distinctly tipsy. Loki was drinking expensive Scotch and although he made a big show of not being affected in the least, she was sure she could see some color in his cheeks.

“Loki, Loki,” she said, wagging her finger in front of him. “Rhymes with hokey pokey.”

“And Darcy rhymes with arsey so where does that leave us?”

“Rude. Hey, what’s the deal with your brother anyway? He seems _nice_. Why can’t _he_ be my sidekick?”

Loki’s face went from almost-friendly to thunderous in the blink of an eye. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Darcy tried to think of a good way to put it, then decided that she didn’t really care. “How are you even brothers? You’re nothing like each other. At all.”

“You don’t know me,” said Loki, and all of a sudden the temperature around her seemed to drop several degrees. “And you don’t know Thor.”

“I mean, like, visually,” she said quickly.

He leaned back, giving her a look that told her he was buying exactly none of her bullshit. “I’m adopted.”

“Oh,” she said. “That explains… the names.” He didn’t reply, and even though she was itching to know more she knew that going any further with this discussion would be a minefield. She looked down at his empty glass. “Hey, what do you know? It’s my round.”

Another two drinks later, they were sharing anecdotes from missions gone wrong, and even Loki had warmed up enough to own up to an embarrassing moment or two.

“…and then, out of nowhere, the bloody so-called smart utility belt goes off, announcing that it’s 3.20 AM and time to wake up. Worst thing was, I didn’t know how to turn the damned thing off, so I just kept pressing random buttons until one of them unfolds some kind of air-powered jet pack that sends me flying halfway across the warehouse, through a window and into the Thames. Which was lucky, because not even hardened criminals will go into the Thames voluntarily. Needless to say, the belt went back to the drawing table.”

Darcy was wheezing with laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Your tech guy sounds _insane_ ,” she said when she’d recovered enough to talk again.

“He’s American,” said Loki, as if it explained everything. “Sometime genius, but full-time maniac. Word of advice. Don’t trust anything that has STARK in capital letters on it. I have no idea what P sees in him…”

“Wait, your scary ass boss is dating the lunatic tech dude?”

“Engaged to be married, believe it or not. That woman is a mystery.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Oh, please,” he said, draining the last of his drink. “You I can read like an open book.”

“Really?” She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “Tell me then, what’s my type?”

“Easy enough. With the way you were fawning over my brother, you prefer men with more brawn than brains. Someone who will if not hold the door, then perhaps smash it open for you. You spent your teenage years hanging around Venice beach, looking for tanned torsos in tight tank tops and sun bleached surfer hair.”

Darcy nodded slowly. “Nice alliteration there, Laufeyson. Eight out of ten purple prose points.” He smirked at her. “But you’re wrong. I’m a smalltown girl, and until I got my own ride, the only thing I looked for in a guy or girl was a means of getting the hell away from the cornfields. I open my own doors, thank you very much.” She held his gaze. “And while I don’t disagree that your brother is very handsome, I actually prefer dark hair.”

Loki stared at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching rhythmically. His expression was unreadable, and after a few seconds of tense silence, he got up. “Past time we went over the last of those documents,” he said, throwing on his suit jacket.

Darcy hurried after him, slightly unsteadily. “No clever ass comeback to that, huh?” she said, trying not to sound too triumphant. “No crushing reply? No further psychoanalysis based on my attitude towards other men?”

“I’m trying to work a case,” he said between clenched teeth, pressing the elevator button impatiently.

“Yeah?” She followed him inside, punching number seven on her way in. “I think you’re just tired of getting your ass handed to you by a _girl_ , which by the way–,”

The move came suddenly, but despite her drunken dizziness, Darcy was prepared. Her hand caught his wrist as it descended and smartly ducked his other blow, slipping around him and bringing his arm with her, twisting it up behind him. He kicked at her feet, and in the tiny space, there wasn’t much room to distance herself from those long legs of his. The elevator rocked violently as they struggled, finally grinding to a halt between two floors. With the amount of alcohol they’d consumed, the fight wasn’t pretty. He pulled at her hair and she at his tie. She aimed a kick at his groin and caught his hip instead, making her wince and try to skip away on one leg, only to crash into the wall.

“You bony fucker,” she grunted.

Loki grinned, but failed to take advantage of her temporary vulnerability, leaving her room to kick him in the shin before getting to her feet again.

“Yank bitch,” he winced, clutching a hand to his leg.

“Mind your fucking language,” said Darcy, shoving him roughly into the wall, causing the mirror behind him to crack down the middle.

“You mind yours,” Loki said, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming her around. Mirror shards crashed to the floor around them, and the sound made them both flinch a little. His eyes flicked uncertainly to the wall, then back to hers. “What are we doing here, Lewis?”

“You started it,” she said, but she knew they’d both taken it too far. He was standing very close to her, and now he relaxed his hold on her a little. She’d been about to attempt a second knee to the balls, but instead leaned back on her heels, her legs shaking a little from the adrenaline rush of their sudden tussle.

“I guess I did,” he said, then crushed his mouth against hers.

She barely registered it when the elevator jerked back into motion, her focus fully occupied with the conflicting messages her brain was sending her. On the one hand, she was still pissed, and this asshole had the _nerve_ … But then it felt ridiculously good to give into that kiss and, oh god did she just part her lips? Yes she did, and now his hand was… Grabbing her wrist? Darcy felt her body twist around, and she was suddenly squashed up against the broken mirror, arms behind her back and Loki’s left leg hooked around her right, leaving her completely incapacitated.

“Oldest trick in the book,” he said, breath tickling her ear. “Do you yield?”

“Do I _fuck_ ,” she said, then headbutted him as hard as she could. Fueled by rage, she managed to slip out of his grip as he cursed and wobbled. His nose was bleeding and he held his hand up in defeat, but she wrestled him to the floor all the same, pinning him down with a knee to his shoulder. Just then, the elevator stopped with a ding on floor seven and the door opened, revealing an elderly gentleman in a moss green velvet dressing gown, holding a small dog. He looked at the scene in front of him, then took a careful step forward.

“Are you all right miss?” he said. “I heard a commotion…”

Darcy, still straddling Loki, gave him a confused look. “If _I’m_ …? Yeah, you know what? We’re good.”

The old man drew himself up. “I used to be in the army, you know. If this man is bothering you, don’t hesitate to say so. I still swing a jolly good right, if I do say so myself.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She stood up, then reached down for Loki. He waved her off and lumbered to his feet, wiping some blood from his upper lip. 

“May I ask…” the man began.

“Police work.” Darcy fished her badge out and flashed it quickly. “He’s in training,” she said, nodding at Loki who gave a choked cough then stalked off towards her room.

“I see.” He was staring at the floor of the elevator. The carpet was scruffed up and stained, shards of silvered glass littering it.

“Yeeaah,” she said, slowly backing away. “It was like that when we got in.” She gave him a quick smile, then hurried off down the corridor.

Back in her room, Loki was washing his face. Darcy joined him by the sink and got her tweezers out to carefully pull a sliver of mirror from the palm of her hand.

“That was so unfair,” she said quietly.

“Was it?” He snatched a towel up and dried his face. She hoped he wouldn’t leave too much blood on it. “You _liked_ it,” he said with a smirk, then started unbuttoning his shirt. Darcy glanced at him as he shrugged out of it, then began rinsing it under the tap. He was toned but not bulky, lean but not skinny. He looked good.

“Sorry about your nose,” she said, tearing her eyes away from him to watch the trail of red water from the white collar swirling into the plug hole.

“I’ve had worse.”

She lifted her eyes and met his in the mirror. “And you’re right,” she heard herself say. “I did like it.”

This time, the kiss didn’t come as a surprise, but the way he hoisted her onto the vanity top did. Her toothbrush mug went flying into the sink, and she felt the mirror wobble precariously as he pressed against her. Their kisses were angry and insistent, and when she found herself grappling for his hair, it felt more like a natural progression from their little scuffle than anything else. She raked her nails down his shoulders and he gave a hiss, then answered by biting down on her lip.

“Ow,” she said, giving his arm a sharp slap, but he simply chuckled. When he kissed her again, she could taste her own blood.

“Now we’re almost even,” he mumbled, trailing his lips down her throat, and she tipped her head back until it hit the mirror. “Let’s spare _that_ though,” he said, glancing at it.

Darcy edged towards him, then hopped down onto the floor. She dragged a finger along the ridge that led from his hip and all the way down into his pants. It looked very, very inviting. She let the hand wander further, sliding her fingers over the fabric until she felt his hardon. He sighed against her shoulder, breath hot against her skin. “Please tell me you’re a good fuck,” she groaned.

Loki smiled, and for once, it was both confident and completely honest. “Oh, I am.”

 

* * *

Darcy woke to the sound of the shower running. She stretched, feeling pleasantly sore all over. Loki had not disappointed, their romp in the bedroom having been something between a sparring session and very angry makeup sex. Just the thought of it made her want to have another go, and she wondered if he was into angry morning sex as well. While she waited for him to finish his shower, she flipped on the TV, staring absentmindedly at the ticker of BBC News. After a while, some of the words began to filter through her rose-tinted recollections of last night, and when she heard “Bristol” being mentioned for the second time, she sat up and focused on the reporter, standing in front of a closed off street, hair blowing wildly in the wind.

“ _…The murder is described by police as ‘exceptionally brutal’, but as of yet, no further details have been released. The family has been informed, and in this quiet coastal town just outside of Bristol, news travels quickly…_ ”

Darcy gaped at the screen as a teary-eyed local spoke to the reporter about what a nice area Portishead always had been. “Loki,” she shouted.

He emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung around his hips, his dark hair still dripping. “What?”

“Where exactly was that zipcode area?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What kind of beta is the best beta? The one who agrees to keep working on a story with you 6 months after you posted the first chapter. Thank you so much, [DaemonMeg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DaemonMeg).


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